"Well, Jack," he said, after a pause, "are you disposed to go back quietly with me?" "You'll ascertain that when you attempt to touch me," rejoined Sheppard, resolutely. “Oh, you can act!” she cried. She could not help thinking of Capes. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. The lad had just barely jangled it, when hurrying footsteps could be heard inside. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest.
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